


Rise of a God, Fall of a People

by Tsyele



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arlathan, Blood and Gore, Crack Treated Seriously, Dragon Age Lore, Elvhen Culture & Customs, Emotional Manipulation, Headcanon, Implied Sexual Content, Intrigue, Mentor/Protégé, Multi, POV Alternating, POV Ghilan'Nain, POV Solas, Politics, Rebellion, Revolution, Slavery, Speculation, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsyele/pseuds/Tsyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pride found her and taught her to rise. Pride stopped her hand and held it throughout. But pride blinded him, so Pride was left broken.</p><p>The story of how the apotheosis of Ghilan'nain marked the end of the Elvhen empire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They are Sheep, We are Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, let me thank for your readership. Every bookmark, comment, kudos and hit means a lot to me, as does your support on this insane endeavor that hinges on a theory based on a sole capital 'P' — what if the series of events set in motion by Fen'Harel's rebellion such as the apotheosis of Ghilan'nain caused the fall of Arlathan?
> 
> Hope you enjoy the story!

Sweat beaded in the valley of her breasts, pooling on the creamy olive skin as the sticky evidence of their exertions. He watched the tiny drop slide to trace the contour of the muscles of her belly, lines he knew so intimately well since ages past. He had traced those very same lines — and many more — just earlier with his tongue. When she shifted to her side, the droplet fell to the silken sheets and he was reminded of the woman that lay by his side. She propped herself on one elbow, letting her dark hair cascade down to pool on the bed, and rested her free arm along her body. Once, the sight would’ve been beautiful and tantalizing, urging him forward to take her lips with his. But it had lost its appeal, like so many things in his comfortable life, and, as her now screeching voice drew attention to her now hideous face, he wondered why he even tried anymore with this disgusting excuse of a person.

“That was quick, Wolf. I remember a time when you used to last at least a year. Did you miss me that much after you failed to attend my hunt?”

“Perhaps, my dear Andruil, I just wanted this nightmare to end sooner rather than later,” he said, part mocking, part truthful, as he kneaded her breast and licked the crook of her neck. The sweat tasted foul in his mouth.

“Admit it, you love it.” Her voice rumbled beneath his tongue, the sound of it and the words sparking up the annoyance that she’d been bringing up in him for centuries. He bit her, not quite deigning to respond, but giving her as an ambiguous an answer as possible. He hadn’t still quit working on her. Yet. She giggled, unnerving, as she pushed his head away, making him fall onto the mattress with an ‘oomph’, and sat up to braid her hair with her back turned to him. “I heard the most disturbing thing about you.”

“I wonder what that could be.” He crossed his arms behind his head and sat back into the bunch of silky pillows, pleased to see that Andruil’s face was finally out of his sight.

“I heard you called for all your followers to gather their slaves in your temple. Then you freed them all except a few of your priests.” She turned back to him with a slight pause, one eyebrow cocked. “I find that extremely curious, _Fen’Haril.”_ The title fell from her lips with utter disdain. Oh, how she loved to keep her slaves. It was fun at first, when Mythal had taken him in, to have all sorts of servants to feed him, pamper him, follow him, clean after him, and even pleasure him — though then, at the peak of his content and carefree life, he never thought to take any, there was no challenge in conquering what he already owned. Now it made him sick and angry to see the injustice he didn’t care to see before, it made him sick and angry to find it so hard to break the disgusting mindset. There was a time when Andruil’s hunts posed as an amusing month of entertainment, now he resisted the urge to vomit at the invitation. Yet the thrill to chase the prey lingered still, so he turned his fangs elsewhere.

“I do not see how such old news could pique your curiosity, Huntress.”

“Why would you dismantle your power base? Who will tend to me when I go to your place?” Her naked body paced around the room, collecting the discarded pieces of clothing they’d left on the ground. He stopped following the bounce of her firm breasts once she slipped into her tunic.

“You never once came to Tarasyl’an Te’las. And I am building my power base elsewhere. Bigger and more devoted than ever.”

Andruil began working on the clasps of her armor, clearly struggling without the aid of a servant. While their physical relationship wasn’t exactly secret, the Huntress didn’t ever want it to be confirmed, something he’d come to be thankful for recently. It was funny to see a god become confused and lost by a few straps if a low born didn’t rush in to help.

“How is that even possible? The nobles must’ve all but abandoned you.”

By Mythal, she was dense…

“Not the nobles.”

She laughed, a hearty, eerie laugh filled with mockery and incredulity. “The rabble? Seriously?” She tossed a silken robe at his face, the fabric stinging when it hit his eyes. “They have no status whatsoever to give you. How do you expect to strike fear on your enemies if all you have are some powerless peasants and slaves?”

He slipped inside the robe, sliding off the bed to help her place her shoulder and arm guards. “You say they are powerless. I say they are not. Their power is in their number. Imagine, Andruil, what we could accomplish, how much could be gained, if they gave us their faith and respect willingly.” He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, and kissed along the artery on her neck. The scent of musk emanated from her hair and her skin was salty and tart.

“They are sheep, Fen’Hellan. And we are _wolves_. We need nothing more than their blood and obedience if we’re to defeat the Evil Ones.” She tugged exasperated at her thigh guard straps, each time more forcefully than before, but the right one always sat disheveled on her hip. “You ruined my armor.”

“I seem to recall you like it rough,” he answered quickly, he wasn’t very interested in discussing just how hard he ripped off her armor pieces, or any of their foreplay for that matter. “They are only evil because you expect them to be evil. If you tried talking with them with an open mind, you would see they are not so different from you or I. As I have.”

“Not so different? Talking? Now I know you’ve lost your mind.”

“Not everything needs to end in death. This is one of those things.”

Andruil made a sharp turn, releasing herself from his arms with force.

“You sound like my coward brother, Wolf. It’s irritating.”

He gripped both her shoulders, locking his gaze with hers.

“Understanding is not cowardice. Action is not inherently superior to inaction. The direct path is rarely the wisest. You should listen to Dirthamen. And to me.”

“Listen to— You’re lucky this arrangement we have isn’t dependant on your wit, or else you would go without for ages. Now move. I have to meet with my sister, that arrogant harpy.”

“Your doubt in my charm wounds me.” Andruil rolled her eyes at the dripping sarcasm. He moved aside to let her pass. “Give Sylaise my best.”

“I’m not your fucking messenger. Get your slaves to do it.”

She passed through him quickly without turning to face him once.

“I do not have any slaves, remember?”

“Then you should’ve thought of that before. When I return, you better be out of here. I don’t want to see your face for at least a decade,” she said. Her voice and footsteps echoed through the empty halls to die in the room.

When the silence fully set in, he walked over to the balcony and opened the glass window doors. The sheer curtains swayed ever so gently with the wind, the breeze a cooling salve on his skin, the fresh smell of the forest sucked in through his nose reinvigorating to his soul. He stepped outside and leaned against the cold marble balustrade, covered in dew and moss. Birds chirped with the rise of morning, dotting the blue of the sky with their dark silhouettes as they flew across it. Ahead, a huge expanse of forest claimed the land from the edge of the temple garden to the horizon, free of any of the crystal spires and towering cities that so characterized Elvhenan now. It was an immaculate piece of land, green and vibrant and beautiful. He wondered how such a pristine place could bear witness to such horrors brought upon by Andruil’s hunts and yet remain so peaceful and alive. A contradiction. But such was the nature of the Huntress, a quiet and enticing lure to one’s death.

Servants stirred about, down in the gardens and outside his chamber, taking notice of their mistress’ absence. Did they work solely when she was out because she preferred it, or was it because they feared her?

The noise of muffled beating alerted him to someone inside the room. He pulled the curtains gently aside to find a slave making the bed, straightening out the pillows. Andruil’s brown bow and arrows marred her face, marking her as property. She jumped when she saw him, yelping in surprise, and fumbling with a pillow until she bowed down to the floor.

“I’m so sorry, master. I not know Mistress Andruil had any guests left,” she said, voice trembling and uncertain. She was new. She looked up at him for the briefest while then immediately clasped her hand over her eyes. He realized he was dressed in only a loose short robe. If he were in Andruil’s master chamber there would be talk, but she’d never trusted him to keep decent, so they had their trysts in his own private bedroom she kept for him. It seemed she was right.

“It is fine.”

“No, I go to slavemaster for whipping, then return to clean.”

“Do not—” He sighed. “You will pay for this indiscretion by taking me to the woods outside.”

“I not allowed outside.”

“Then take me to the door that leads outside.”

“Thank you, master. For kindness.” She rose up, refusing to make any eye contact, and backed away in quick, small steps until she reached the door and closed it.

Almost eight ages ago, Mythal had told him to help her influence her daughter to take a kinder, gentler path. Almost eight ages had passed and what did he have to show for it? A series of frustrated sexual encounters and Andruil remained as bloodthirsty as ever. His quiet revolution inside the pantheon had barely progressed and the efforts seemed for naught. He wasn’t ready to give up and call her a lost cause, not yet, though it was getting close. Perhaps the Huntress was right and a more direct approach was required, but such an act lacked the subtlety and foresight he preferred, and to concede her any point would wound his pride. No, there was some other way he could work. But this, what he was doing at the moment, had failed so spectacularly he was the slightest bit ashamed. Only a foolish young man would think his cock could change minds. It was time to be wiser.

He picked up his clothes, which had been thrown across the room to land haphazardly over the furnishings, and put them on, stroking away any wrinkles to keep his neat and charming demeanor alive.

As he reached for the door, his eyes scanned the bedroom, taking in the chaos Andruil and him had left, and committing to memory the time he spent here, that, although it had grown to become a bother and a chore, had started fun and pleasant. This would be the last time he looked at the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are many tales about ancient Elvhenan and the Elvhen Gods you can find in the codex. In fact, this entire fic is based on a theory born out of a single clue on a piece of codex I found when researching the pantheon.
> 
> Most of the events will use the tales as a base but I treat them mostly as metaphors for relationships, events, etc...
> 
> This work is highly speculative, and brought upon by speculation, so I encourage any lore discussion to make this as "canon" and appealing as possible.


	2. A Most Peculiar Situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: blood and gore.

The slave girl had lead him through the vast corridors of the housing section of Andruil’s temple, never once looking directly at him. The one time her gaze met his by chance through a mirror, and she cupped her hands around her brow and cheeks, as if to wear an animal blinder. Along the shiny halls filled with mosaics of his fellow gods — which the Huntress had installed more out of conformity and duty than respect or love — he spotted several other slave girls, all wearing Andruil’s tools in brown, all turning away their stare. It was strange for him to see them all, a reminiscence of the times he visited palaces of kings and queens who solely kept either males or females for their pleasure in their halls. The walk to the massive jeweled door that opened to the private gardens had been totally silent. He turned to the slave and gestured an acknowledgement of her service. She bowed low and left in quick steps backwards, akin to how she had acted earlier in his room.

He crossed the door out to a polished marble deck lined with gold leafed rocks at the edge of the half-moon, like the gilded fans that had been in season last age in court. Recently washed stairs, opposite to the door,  lead to the freshly cut lawn garden where the few male servants he had seen were working. When he set his bare foot on the dew moist grass, the slaves took a quick glance at him with dull and wary eyes, to then return to picking weeds or painstakingly trim the greenery. It was so much harder not to notice them when he was the only non-slave in the premises.

If all of them attacked at once, he wondered, no matter how powerful he was or his mastery of the energies in the air, they would be able to overwhelm him. Collectively they had strength, but they would dare not strike when the future brought no promise of reprieve. This was the thought that Wisdom had imparted him. Even if they protested, had a rallying point, the slaves, servants and commoners had no guarantee that their lives would be bettered as long as those in power did not care for them.

He skirted along the treeline, grass tickling the soles of his feet, taking in the fresh air coming from the forest. The blood spilled on the last hunt had been washed away from the lawn garden. The evidence of Andruil’s impatient arrows, not waiting to give the hunted their due headstart, removed by the slaves that awaited their turn. _“I don’t want their innards soiling my lands,”_ he remembered her say a few hunts ago.

A rustling noise coming from the forest made him turn his head to the sound. His blue eyes scanned into the woods but noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Small animals skittered through the trees, too small to interest the hunters that stalked more entertaining prey. Despite the occasional commotion, the woodland creatures made this place their home. Some because Andruil actually found amusing and enjoyed their presence, like the hares and hawks, others because they were drawn by the rotting corpses of elven slaves and feasted on their flesh.

He wanted to avoid entering the forest and encounter the lifeless result of the Huntress’ sport — not because he was upsetted by death, but by his relative indifference to it — but the rustling yet continued, much different than what he was used to in here, and he was intrigued. He followed the sound a little further before him and his eyes caught a faint movement in between the tall grass leaves not yet cut by the servants.

Calling upon the magic in the air, he lifted the accused creature up, encasing it in a ball of green energy that enclosed as it floated in front of him. His spell entrapped the most curious animal: a green and brown serpent, striped in shiny black. In all his years he spent in Andruil’s temple and gardens, in all the hunts he’d attended, in all the walks he’d had to release his frustration, never had he come upon such an animal. Serpents were not common in Elvhenan, and most certainly not in this region.

The long slick creature hissed inside the crackling sphere, and he heard a hiss in response coming from the trees. Further in slithered another snake, coming to aid its kin. With a snap of his fingers, the ball of energy dissipated, the magic returning to the air. He hopped to the side when its fangs bared to bite him, an aggressive attitude he had not anticipated. These were curious creatures indeed, almost… artificial.

He inhaled deeply, breathing in the magic surrounding him, and willed it to encircle him. His body twisted its shape to the form of the Wolf, a beautiful beast with a fur of white, noble in demeanor like his title. A growl rumbled from deep within his belly, reverberating through the air as it left his throat to scare the snake away. His nose caught the scent of the serpents, and he turned to the direction from where they came from. He followed the trail, trotting lightly between the trunks and shrubbery and fallen leaves, sometimes pausing to regain the scent of his quarry when the smell of dead flesh became too overbearing. Deep in the woods, the sun peered faintly through the canopy, rays of light falling to their death among the trees, but the bright blue eyes were well suited for the darkness.

Up in the branches, he spotted strange squirrels jumping from bough to bough. They were smaller than he remembered, but then one opened its limbs to reveal some sort of flaps and flew. When did squirrels fly?

As the Wolf, time felt fuzzy, not quite passing like it did in his man form, sometimes stretching wide enough to feel an eternity fit in the swirl of hours, other times contracting into a miniscule ball of seconds, and other times he simply blacked out. He enjoyed the freedom the Wolf gave him, but he restrained to maintain the transformation by guiding himself through physical objectives rather than periods of time. Right now, he was not quite sure was his objective was.

After a while, how much, he did not know, the sun began to brighten his surroundings again. The scent he followed was scattered about among the trees. As he neared the edge of the forest, his fur rose with the energy spinning through the air. His ear twisted to meet the commotion beyond. The Wolf disappeared in a puff of smoke, and he transformed back into his natural self.

Dried leaves crunched beneath his bare feet, the broken pieces slipping to stick between his toes. The Wolf’s paws were better suited for stealthing closer, but he could feel the presence of three people as he advanced, and as Fen’Hellan, everyone knew him as the Noble Wolf, but they did not know exactly his elven form. He took a certain enjoyment in others not knowing his true identity and the freedom the anonymity and deception gave him. He would make himself known, though. Eventually.

He reached the treeline and hid behind a large rotting trunk, covered in brown moss and fungi.

Three women argued heatedly, though he could not hear them. Two of them were bright, shining and white, with long flowing golden hair. They were dressed in beautiful silken dresses, the latest in fashion, laden in milky pearls and violet quartz crystals. Sheer shawls covered their otherwise bare shoulders and their porcelain skin was unmarked by any lines, scars or flaws. They were the very definition of perfect elven women — the kind he so easily talked into bed — if not for the dirtied edge of their dresses and mussed hair. The other woman, dressed much more modestly, wore simple elven finery reserved for high-status servants. Her tan skin bore the symbols of Andruil written in green. Not a slave directly to the Huntress, then. Hair, as white as the moon, fell like foamy waves. A most peculiar color for a most peculiar situation.

The noble women ganged up on her, and rained magic down at her feet. Blood splattered all over, staining bright red the silky white dresses as they laughed maliciously.

He felt the energy being sucked to a single point in the servant’s hand. The bright green ripples of magic shifted and contracted to whirl around her arm, blurring its form. His eyes squinted, and for a moment he saw her hand replaced by a claw. He’d never seen a slave wield magic so strongly. The _vallaslin_ was supposed to suppress shape-shifting and other powerful magical abilities to keep them from fleeing, harming their masters or rebelling. The thought of this slave commanding magic in such a way? _Fascinating_.

The nobles went silent for a moment in confusion or panic, and it was all it took for the servant girl to strike upward at one of them.

Her bare claw slashed through the chest and up the neck and jaw of the noble lady at her right. The strike cut deep, opening huge gashes that shredded her left breast and ripped open her dress and ribs. Rare stones flew through the air, glinting as they catched the rays of the setting sun. Blood sprayed wide from the severed carotid artery, covering the women in the sticky warm liquid. The woman fell backwards to the ground, bending at the knees, her lifeless arms splayed on the grass. Her eyes were wide open in shock as she gurgled the blood that welled in her throat for the last beats of her heart. The spraying from her neck subsided. Her head turned to the side, limp, lips parted to let slide a line of blood. The blonde hair, fanned on the ground, turned to crimson as the thick red fluid pooled around her. There lay the very definition of a perfect elven woman, white, golden and pert, now scarlet, bloodied and dead.

The other noble lady screamed, a piercing cry of anguish, and released a blast of force that sent the servant flying backwards along with the lifeless body beside her, which stopped rolling near him. He looked at her face. He knew of her. Princess Hanowen. Or was it Lathadahl?

The white haired slave stumbled to her knees, the magic in her arm flickering between the claw and the hand. The noble advanced on her and stretched her arms in a quick, forceful movement, snapping the air still. Magic stopped around the servant and she fell on all fours, gasping, unable to breathe. Fire flurried at her as she scurried in a crawl to escape it, her screams silenced by the lack of air.

Bright crackling energy welled in the hands of the blonde woman, ready to kill. She neared the servant, kicking her to the ground and making her fall on her side. She pressed her bloodstained foot on the fallen woman’s neck, twisting it further down to turn her head in an unnatural angle as she retched and clawed desperately at her leg.

When he felt the magic condense itself to strike, he jumped out of his hiding place, and, with a flick of his wrist, he sent the noblewoman stumbling back. The energy detonated, missing its mark.

The woman on the ground gasped and coughed, sucking in the air in large breaths.

He felt magic surging once more. His fingers snapped and a bright blue barrier popped around the noble lady, and when she struck, the magic burst to die against it. She rapped at it, shouting profanities in furious succession, doing nothing more than creating small ripples which quickly fixed themselves.

“Release me, now! Don’t you know who I am?” _Yes, I do._

“Patience, my lady. I will release you once you promise not to harm this woman.” He pointed at the dark-skinned woman who was stumbling to get on her feet.

“She killed my sister, I demand satisfaction!”

“She is Lady Andruil’s property. You do know that you cannot sacrifice her servants without her or the master’s permission.”

“She’s my father’s slave, I can do as I wish with her.”

“Correction: you can do as you wish with her once you have your father’s permission. Which you do not. I know that king Aurillen is away petitioning Mythal.”

Her brow rose in shock, then narrowed back down in suspicion. “Wh—Who are you?”

He looked sideways to check if the other woman was watching, but she had stepped away from them in fear — her magic was still suppressed. _Perfect_.

His face started to morph into the Wolf’s, but he was careful not to change his body. It was harder to focus this type of magic in just a single point, and it meant his shape shaked and blurred as the transformation remained incomplete. But even in her state of shock, the noblewoman realized his identity.

Her face blanched with the dawn of recognition, and from her lips fell a single whispered name, “Fen’Hellan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at naming elves.
> 
> EDIT: I have a feeling this fic is listed in unpopular tags, which makes me sad, because I'm feeling proud and confident in my work...
> 
> EDIT 2: Fixed a phrase to better convey what I intended.


	3. When Did I Say I Would Help You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: blood and gore.

Ghilan’nain was not a perfect servant. She spent many of her days idle, pursuing her interests and wild imaginations. It was a privilege that came from being the daughter of the king’s favorite slave. Her father had attended to the master’s every business: dressed him, fed him, bathed him, saddled his hart and accompanied him in his hunts, sometimes even to the Lady of the Hunt’s events. When her magic came to be, king Aurillen was wary of her powers, for she was unusually gifted. By the time it she was ready for the _vallaslin_ , her father begged their master to spare her the brand of the slave, so that Ghilan’nain could continue nurturing her gift, and brand her instead as a servant, a devotee to Andruil, and he would offer himself as sacrifice for the king and his goddess. Aurillen agreed, and after her father’s death he tasked Ghilan’nain to use her magic to make his kingdom the envy of Elvhenan and earn the favor of Lady Andruil.

With the power to manipulate nature, trees grew taller than in any other forest and flowers bloomed more colorful than in any other garden, and for a while, Ghilan’nain became the preferred of the king, surpassing many a servant and, some say, family member. But with favoritism came disdain, from both the slaves and the princesses.

After centuries of careful landscaping, King Aurillen invited Andruil to view his wonderful gardens, but the Huntress was unimpressed by plants and trees and flowers, and scoffed at his offering. Ghilan’nain’s pride was wounded, as both her work and position were ungracefully cast aside.

After Andruil’s dismissal, she worked tirelessly to create something to impress the goddess and tried to fit in with the other servants. But they still resented her, so she retreated into herself and became increasingly isolated. She began, in secret, to explore the extent of her magic. Little insects buzzed throughout the bushes, crawled between the blades of grass, hovered over the flowers and ate the leaves of the trees. Later she created the serpents, deadly and sleek, one of her favorites, and the flying squirrels, cute and harmless, among others. One day, Lathadahl found her playing with her critters and alerted her father. Despite the _vallaslin_ glyph stopping her from using her magic to defend or harm without permission, Ghilan’nain’s creatures could act on their own and that scared her master, so when he found out he ordered her mana be suppressed as a lesson, the first of many times it was done to her. The slave brand dulled the magic in the body, but she didn’t wear the slave brand. When her magic was forcibly removed from her, the desperation was almost unbearable.

Ghilan’nain was stubborn, however.

Today the king was away. Today she was free to roam the garden. Today she wanted to play with her magic. But today the princesses were in a harassing mood.

Hanowen and Lathadahl enjoyed making the palace servants’ life a living hell, like many of the nobles of the region. Those sworn to Andruil didn’t have a high regard for slaves. The Huntress favored for action to be taken into ones’ hands, so the common populace were but tools or entertainment. The sisters in particular, liked to sabotage the efforts of the workers, and after the garden fiasco, Ghilan’nain was one of their favorite targets.

The white-haired elf had snuck from view of the palace. Ghilan’nain had been practicing changing her form, something most of the nobility couldn’t even do. It was funny how ability didn’t translate to a high position in society. Everything depended on the luck of being born to the right family.

After a quiet morning, Lathadahl and Hanowen found her somehow, in the fringes of the garden, near the forest that marked the kingdom’s border. Ghilan’nain was making serpents, warming up her magic when the sisters flanked her. They smiled, pleased to see her break the rules. They bent the energies in the air to punch down on her dear creations, squashing hard until the serpents exploded in a shower of blood and laughter. She was so, so angry, but couldn’t help them, or herself, and couldn’t strike. No matter her skill, at the end of the day, she was just a slave.

But something dark stirred inside Ghilan’nain. She needn’t use magic against the princesses, she only needed to use her hands.

Inhaling deeply, she welled her mana in her arm, and the transformation started. Her nails prolonged into claws, pointy and sharp and itching for flesh, her skin became scaly and coarse, and the muscles of her forearm grew big and strong. And then it sped upwards, excitement pumping in her veins.

The next few moments passed in a blur.

She wasn’t unused to having her magic dispelled and suppressed, but every time it was done to her the asphyxiating feeling caused her chest to burn and her throat to become hoarse, sending wild panic to sear through her senses until she blacked out. This time it hadn’t gone that far, but she had called upon the magic and infused it so deeply into herself that when princess Hanowen’s spell clashed against her mana, thrusting the energy she collected so forcefully to the ground until the squeezing pressure caused it to burst, she felt the air being ripped out of her lungs so suddenly she thought she would die. Her eardrums popped and a loud ringing pain replaced sound and senses. Ghilan’nain crawled to escape the agony but the gasps that wracked her body made the effort fruitless, and soon she felt a jab at her side and fell, rolling over. Hanowen’s foot crushed down on her windpipe while tilting her jaw and pushing her skull against the ground, and she could no longer see from the tears that stung her eyes. She gagged and grasped desperately at the princess’ leg for purchase, but the world whirled at a dizzying speed.

Just when her consciousness threatened to blank, the weight of the atmosphere fell onto her like a punch in the gut, and she gasped as her throat was released. She rolled to her belly and fought to stand on all fours, coughing and panting at the sudden surge of air. Ghilan’nain brought her hands to her eyes to wipe away the tears that blurred her surroundings. Thick and sticky fluid slathered across her face and her vision was stained red. The metallic scent of blood invaded her nostrils.

She stumbled as she got on her feet, not taking her eyes away from her bloody hand. Her body shook uncontrollably. She had a few scrapes from when Hanowen sent her flying back with a telekinetic strike, but nothing that could’ve caused so much bleeding. It wasn’t hers.

Ghilan’nain took a few off-balance steps away. She didn’t understand what was happening. Her eyes scanned around. Near her, a patch of charred ground still smoked from the princess’ fire. A little to the left, a strange man stood in front of lady Hanowen, who was trapped within a shimmering blue barrier. The young slave blinked. The man’s face shook in white and green blurs. Was she hallucinating? A few meters to their right, a sinister pool of blood seeped through the grass and into the earth, staining the leafy green in bright red, smears trailing further on to…

A small gasp escaped her mouth. At the end of the trail of blood lay the body of princess Lathadahl, limp and twisted from rolling across the lawn. Her beautiful white silk gown was ruined, drenched in scarlet, ripped open to reveal— _Oh, Creators…_ her breasts, bare and shredded. Three lacerations crossed her chest up to her jaw, painting her pale skin in strokes of bright crimson. Her perfect long blond hair no longer perfect anymore, but caked in mud and gore, mussed and tangled in dry brown leaves. But her dead stare was no more fiery with spite, and its own way, Ghilan’nain thought the princess’ imperfect, lifeless form prettier.

With a snap of his fingers, the man with whom lady Hanowen had been speaking released her from the barrier. She bowed to him — something the slave thought quite strange — and ran towards the king’s palace. Her shimmering sheer shawl fluttered through the air, releasing itself from her shoulders with the momentum. Ghilan’nain watched the white figure of her dress, now torn and dirty with blood and mud disappeared in the distance until the face of her savior filled her whole vision. She had not heard him come nearer. In fact, she couldn’t hear at all.

His lips moved, full, recently licked lips from which she could make out no words. The buzzing in her ears drowned out any other sound and she began to panic. She clawed at them, trying to scrape away the white noise that now threatened to overwhelm her. In a desperate act, she squeezed down on her ears with her hands, pushing and releasing the pressure as she clenched shut her eyes and jaw. Alien hands gripped her wrists, strongly at first to catch her attention, then relieving the tension while stroking thumbs through her skin. Ghilan’nain relaxed and let him guide her arms down.

Cold fingers traced the tip of her ears to set palms on them. Her breathing became lighter when the tingling magic slithered into her. She felt her mana returning as he seeped his in her flesh, in her head, and she heard her eardrum click, the whooshing sound of the wind, the crackling of energy, and the gentle hum of their breathing all returning at once.

“There. Can you hear me?”

“I—I… You saved me,” Ghilan’nain said, awestruck. He was a handsome man, with stormy blue eyes. No _vallaslin,_ yet he helped her! In fine robes, too.

“Unfortunately, no. I merely delayed the inevitable.”

“Oh…”

“You do have a witness,” he said. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you came out of this mostly unscathed.”

“Pride?”

“The apple of my mother’s eye,” Solas chuckled. Yes, she could see that.

He waited for her answer with a small smile. She retreated for a second. Nobles didn’t usually ask for the name of people like her.

“Ghilan’nain.” Her name rolled fast on her mouth.

“I am curious, Ghilan’nain, to know how come a slave of Andruil commands the power of June.”

“I have no idea of what you speak of.”

“And she is well spoken, too.” His face lit up in a mischievous grin. “Aren’t you a mystery?”

Ghilan’nain took a step back, wary. The conversation took a sour turn. Why did he help her yet let Hanowen go? Why ask these questions? She denied him, but the mere fact he’d ask them meant he knew.

When she didn’t answer, Solas turned towards the body of princess Lathadahl. “Impressive work. I wonder if the king would think the same.”

“Please, you can’t just save me and then leave me to die.”

“Can I not? You cannot even indulge my curiosity. Quite a disappointment.”

She could burst of frustration. He gave her no choice. She grunted. “I did them. The serpents. I can create small animals. My _vallaslin_ , it isn’t…”

“Ah… that makes much more sense.” He stroked his chin. “Good luck with your execution.”

Solas walked towards the forest, leaving her and Lathadahl behind. No, it couldn’t be. Ghilan’nain raced after him.

“Wait! You said you would help me!”

“When did I say I would help you?”

“You— Please, I’m begging you!”

Solas paused, thinking, his face unreadable. She shifted nervously in anticipation.

“All right, Ghilan’nain.”

“You’ll stop the execution?”

“It depends. Will you do everything I say?”

Servants and guards could be heard in the distance, coming for the dead princess. Ghilan’nain looked down at herself. Clothes torn, mud and dirt stained the tail of her skirt. Blood splattered all over her legs, chest and face. Her entire hand covered in red. Obviously guilty. Even though no servant bore love for Lathadahl, they bore no love for her, too. She would die without intervention. She didn’t want to die, she wanted to create.

“Yes. Anything.”

“Then… Perhaps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't notice, I love the Mana Clash spell in DA:O. I imagine that in a world where magic is everywhere and is as natural as breathing, that sort of mana nullification would result in a very painful experience.
> 
> This chapter was hard to write. Ghilan'nain is unknown to me and I'm struggling to find her voice. I hope in time it'll be easier and more consistent.
> 
> EDIT: Fixed some dialogue for a better rhythm.


	4. A Clear Path

After the exertions of the day — and never had a single day felt as long as this one — all it took for Solas to slink into the Beyond was to fall on his soft velvety bed and close his eyes. The transition was hazy at first, a misty sage-green blur that clouded his vision, but as his body adapted to his surroundings, Solas inhaled deeply and the dream-world faded into view. Whatever fatigue he had was gone, washed away by the magic air.

He liked it here. There were times he stayed for years on end, roaming freely the Beyond as the Wolf, traipsing its land which was more agreeable than the waking world. There were a few times he sat on his throne, in the reflection of his temple, and received petitioners asking for help from the Noble Wolf — dull affairs at first, but he started to find enjoyment once he adopted a more liberal interpretation of the requests. But the majority of his time he spent dreaming was dedicated to search for interesting knowledge and spirits. It was this way he came across the Shrouded Ones, and befriended them. It was this way he met Mythal, who took him under her wing. It was this way he found Wisdom, and shared with it their journeys.

Wisdom was a gentle spirit, rarely announcing itself in the waking world, preferring to observe the goings-on from the safety of the Beyond. Solas had found it a few years after the construction of his temple, after a particularly dissatisfying petitioning session. Most of the supplicants he sent on their merry way or gave them not-as-expected instructions, but a few — most of them of the common folk — had come to him in earnest and he did not know how to help them. He wandered the Beyond, absently searching for solutions and not expecting to find them, but along the way Wisdom had been drawn to him, or he to it, and they immediately found what they sought after in one another. It was Wisdom who taught him the People sought him because he was different from the others. As an outsider to the divine family, Solas had earned his place by talent and cunning — and a little bit of humor that Mythal enjoyed so much. The nobles looked up to him to help them on their difficulties in being noticed further, the common elves asked him for help in surpassing others and rise in their station, and for these selfish desires he had little patience, but every once in a while someone would come to the Noble Wolf and asked him how to better their lives and their families’. Unfortunately, for those he had few answers.

Eventually, Wisdom showed him how by mere circumstance of birth, many were resigned to have their talent and freedom stifled from the start, never even given the opportunity to prove themselves as Solas once had. As the Noble Wolf, he had the means to give hope to the People who waited for their chance to do what they wanted and enjoyed.

During their last conversation, Solas and Wisdom had come to the conclusion that, albeit his slaves and servants were treated fairly, their station meant they were bound to serve his will and nothing more. Not concerned by the wrath and displeasure of the nobles pledged to him, he ordered all bound to him released, including his priests. The slaves took their freedom readily, thanking the Wolf profusely for his gift, and some even offered themselves freely to his service as priests, who had rejected the loss of the _vallaslin_ and decided to keep themselves dedicated to the will of Fen’Hellan. From this display, the word on the lips of the servants of the other gods talked of Fen’Haril, a figure of hope, the Rebel Wolf. Solas admitted to no one, but the willing worship elicited in him a guilty pleasure on having his ego stroked so.

Tonight he would meet with Wisdom again, if only to have someone say he was not mad for the idea that had been brewing in his mind.

When Solas gained complete control of his surroundings, he called for his spirit friend as he made way to their usual meeting spot. He crossed through the gardens of Tarasyl’an Te’las, flora bursting in every direction like green explosions of life amidst the still and cold rock of the mountains. He nodded to one of his dreaming priests, who nodded to him in return — a quite informal greeting that, if he were one of Sylaise’s followers, it would earn him a place in her pyre.

The entrance into the mountain complex was lit up by the magical reflection of the fire that burned without need of fuel or air, hueing all its surroundings in its turquoise dance. It burned even when the fire in the waking world had long been smothered, as a memory of the energy that once was. Solas took a step inside, hearing the clinking rune etched into the stone that conveyed into his mind the simple message carved in the dream: _“Enter the shrines of the Noble Wolf.”_ As he walked through the corridor lit in blue by the braziers, he heard another ping of a rune at the entrance of a room, _“At his feet lay down your fears.”_ Through these chambers many a supplicant would cross in deference of Fen’Hellan. Another door, another ping, _“Freed are the earnest of their burdens.”_ Those seeking his help would reflect on their requests and intentions. Those who were true and honorable would find their answers. _“The weak will be chased for years.”_ Those who were not would also have their due, but perhaps not what they sought.

If were to be honest, that little warning was mostly to dissuade any with doubts from bothering him and waste his time when it was their turn to request his assistance in their matters. As soon as his priests put the runes in the path to his temple, a lot less supplicants with futile requests came to Solas, in fear that the Wolf would chase them throughout the ages in the Beyond.

Wisdom was drawn to those seeking the integrity in their pleas, but afraid of those who were not truthful in their intentions, so the spirit had settled in a hidden chamber — where a pool had been constructed to be turned into a Well for his followers but never came into fruition — listening to the Wolf’s priests, servants and devotees. Solas found Wisdom during the first time he walked the supplicant’s path, like he did now, when he turned to the secret door that led to the room he had now transformed into a bath house in the waking world.

Making the familiar turns in the corridors, Solas opened an entrance to the chamber, changing with his mind the layout of the dream, charging the air of the Beyond with his signature magic so that his friend would not fret and know he’d arrived.

This was his favorite place in both worlds, a beautiful secluded cavern but with no ceiling so that natural light shone down upon it, with a clear pool heated by the hot spring that passed through the mountain and fed by gentle cascades that fell from above. Without tending from his servants, vegetation claimed the floor and walls, and stroked them in vibrant green. In the few patches of clear rock, a painting adorned the gray wall, finished in the dream as he imagined — not quite as completed  in the world where he neglected to paint it. In the center of it, Wisdom waited, and when it heard the footsteps echoing through the hall, it turned, bearing a smile on its face.

“Hello, my friend.”

“Hello, Rebel Wolf.”

“Ah, so you’ve heard,” he chuckled.

“Of course. I always seek to learn news of you,” Wisdom said, its voice calm and ethereal and shaped by a smile. It paused, “The blood chain is broken. There is choice now. They wonder what they will do, but they search the answers in themselves. It is good.”

“I am glad.”

“There is pride in freedom. They want no guidance, but they are lost without the hand that has been holding them. Pride would shatter if they took another. They are lost in questions.” Its face contorted in grief. “I am sorry. My counsel was misguided. I had not anticipated the workings of the living mind. I have yet to truly understand it.”

“Do not worry, my friend. The living mind works very differently than a spirit’s. Even I cannot fully grasp their variations and complexities. I could never ask you to account for an unexpected outcome.” Solas thought about how Andruil’s pride stopped her from calling for help to put on her armor. If none were ready to tend to her, she would rather wear it ill-fitted and disheveled than admit the need for aid. People were like that sometimes: once put in an unfamiliar situation, they would cling to their previous knowledge, the only life they knew, and struggle to recreate it as best they could. The need to prove themselves capable would trump reaching out for help, and any offer to help change would be considered an insult. Some were able to evolve, to adapt to their new life and make it their own, but many, with no clear reference, would revert back to the only thing they knew, like a group of released slaves that gave themselves back in service, this time to Falon’Din. “I thought that it might be the case. And I think I may have a solution.”

“A shadowed hand?”

“Yes. A rallying symbol.”

“Then you are wiser than I am,” it said, smiling.

“No one can be wiser than you, my friend.” He pondered how to address Ghilan’nain. Wisdom would’ve probably glimpsed his memories of her already. “I met a most curious woman today. A slave.”

“A talent, to be sure.”

“Indeed. She can manipulate nature like none other.”

“But she is stifled.”

“Yes. And soon to be killed, if no one intervenes.”

“You came here because you want to know how to proceed?”

“I… Yes,” Solas said, feeling guilty for not visiting Wisdom for some time, and only coming to advance his plan with the conscience that he was doing the right, and wise, thing.

“What do you think?”

“I think the People need someone they can look up to, to see they too can rise above and claim the life that is theirs by right.”

“And you think that’s her?”

Solas thought of the servant of Andruil, shining against the horizon, leading the People to their freedom. The Guide. She even had the name for it.

“I am doing what I can, but it is not enough. I am not like them. They will never see me as something other than a noble benefactor. But she is a slave. If one of the People can prove herself worthy…”

“She could be the hand they do not know is holding them.”

“Exactly.”

“Then you know what you must do. The path before you is clear.”

“All that’s left is to clear the path for her.”

“Be well, my friend,” Wisdom said. They hugged their goodbyes, and Solas left the chamber, sealing its passage.

He woke up in his green velvet bed, above the covers he forgot to cover himself with. His arms stretched along with his back, cracking the joints. Solas got up, the bare soles of his feet freezing as they touched the stone. He winced as the fine hairs in his arms and legs rose up with the goosebumps. Since releasing his servants and slaves, the housing section of his temple started to fall in disrepair by the lack of attendance and housekeeping, dust covering the furniture like dew and flecks floating about like dandelion seeds. It was also cold, so very cold. Solas placed a fire rune on the ground to heat the stone floor as he searched for a fine ceremonial robe to wear. Once clad in finery, he made way for his eluvian, the centerpiece of Tarasyl’an Te’las’ rotunda. He didn’t even bother to eat, knowing the ceremony he was headed would not lack for food. He was, after all, going to a funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wanting to better read the FH poem, here it is:
> 
> _Enter the shrines of the Noble Wolf,_  
>  _At his feet lay down your fears._  
>  _Freed are the earnest of their burdens,_  
>  _The weak will be chased for years._  
>   
>  This was also a hard chapter to write, as was the previous one, due to all the backstory.  
>   
> Many things to say:  
> People in Elvhenan are described to go into uthenera, a sleep in which they wander the Beyond in search of wisdom/knowledge/enlightenment/etc... I assume that Solas is a master dreamer, slipping in and out of the uthenera state as he will. It is said that after the fall of Arlathan, the practice started dwindling, and I believe it is because the creation of the Veil made it very hard for anyone to dream as before, even Solas, who came out of it weak. Now, there is clearly the Fade during Elvhenan, it's just easier for the living and the spirits to traverse in and out of both worlds, and which the waking world is more accurately mimicked in the Beyond.  
> The blue fire is veilfire, and the [runes](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_The_Lost_Art_of_Veilfire) are like the runes you encounter in DA:I. When the Veil was raised, these were a few funky things to cross over.  
> The chamber where he meets with Wisdom is the same one as in [Bare and Lost at the Place](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3547817).  
> The Shrouded Ones are the Forgotten Ones, I just thought they wouldn't be called forgotten then, nor would Solas call them Evil Ones like Andruil.
> 
> Also I caved and tagged with Lavellan/Solas and I promise this will happen, but only in the very end, where I'll draw parallels between their relationship and the things that will happen over the course of the story.


	5. Everything Will Become Clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was slightly delayed by the DLC. No spoilers, though.

In Elvhenan, a noble’s death was a somber affair. Because the  _elvhen_ didn’t die of natural causes, to have a beautiful princess have her life snatched at the height of her existence was a grim reminder that immortality did not mean invulnerability, therefore it was important to bring out all the pomp and circumstance required for such an event and throw a ceremony to commemorate the life of such a distinguished person, and have the guests pay their respects. Whether or not Lathadahl was worthy of that respect was a matter of debate.

Memorial services are quiet, solemn, but also grand things. They precede the funeral processions and entombment, and are an opportunity for the organizing family to flaunt their wealth and splendor. Even though Aurillen’s was an insignificant kingdom fallen out of favor, all surrounding nobility and royalty were expected to come, and to fail attendance was only reserved for the powerful or those who wished to risk social suicide. Lathadahl’s death helped put her father’s kingdom’s name back on the minds and lips of the people, and the king would throw a week-long ceremony and feast to celebrate his daughter’s life, but mostly to impress his guests. Such was the way of the _elvhen_ noble families.

It was very ironic to Solas that dying was the greatest achievement of many a noble’s life.

He arrived at the palace, fashionably late as only he could. A male servant, face marked in green by the Huntress’ tools, wearing finery grander than some of Solas’s own, greeted him in silence with a bow. The slave shifted to the side, still lowered, to clear the way to the massive gilded door where two others stood to each side. Solas walked up the steps and the two slaves opened the entrance that lead to the foyer. As he passed through them, they bowed in synch, skittering back two steps, before returning to close the doors.

His bare feet landed on a soft carpet of finely knit green wool, exquisitely decorated. The foyer was a tall, white granite chamber held by four large pillars covered in gold and silver leaf that rose up to the ceiling. From its height fell white and green banners and ribbons with an elegant and exotic floral pattern of a bloom Solas had never seen — a flower which he believed to be one of Ghilan’nain’s creations — and the king’s crest embroidered in gold thread. The light threading through the colored glass of the vaulted ceiling washed the room in soothing turquoise and orange glow and, like a sweep of a hand, unfurled the path to the stairs and up to the main hall with the slight angle of the early afternoon sun. Even though the foyer did not lack for light, the torches lining the walls and pillars were all lit in magical flame, burning brighter than ordinary fire. Flanking the stairs hanged two large brown banners bearing Andruil’s sigil, to honor the patron goddess that would not come.

By the left wall stood a line of finely dressed servants from which a young branded woman broke away, wearing a white dress almost as elegant as the princesses had worn the day he came across Ghilan’nain; unlike the others, it was sheer. She crossed the rug to meet him, footfalls silent as a feather, and bowed to Solas, avoiding meeting his eyes. She stretched her right hand, bending her little and ring fingers, announcing herself as his guide and companion for the ceremony.

The slave lead him up the stairs, into the grand hall, a wide and pristine chamber where a large group of finery-clad nobles was gathered. The hall’s white granite floor was so polished it reflected the walls and ceiling above, only dulled from the prints of bare feet along the carved wooden tables where the buffet was served. More banners hanged from the ceiling, swaying gently from the breeze that blew in from the opened archways to the balconies. Aside from the rhythmic tinkling of the wind chimes outside, muffled footsteps or occasional crunch of food, the main hall stood silent despite its guests. It always fascinated Solas how funerals could shut up even the most annoying of people.

He glided through the crowd, shadowed by his pretty slave escort. She, like all the other companions, was there for two reasons only: for a blatant display of the grand wealth and servant body, and to tempt the guests into committing a gross faux pas in such a solemn event. Solas had seen this before, this petty little game. The most enticing of male and female slaves followed the nobles according to their fancies, tending to them, flattering them, serving them food and drink, and eventually during the day, week or month-long event, bed them while warning their master when it would happen. It was forbidden to touch other nobles’ slaves without the permission of their masters, and if it were to occur during a funeral, that would be an awful indiscretion indeed. There had been many fools to fall for the ruse, and as many families brought to shame. Whether or not the slaves wanted to do this was another matter. There were rewards for those who could seduce and disgrace rival nobles. Sometimes freedom was in prospect for the slave who could do this the most, so all who could participated regardless of their own volition.

His companion wasn’t gorgeous like some he had in the past. Her freckled face was framed by her red waves and her features were mostly plain, except the bright blue eyes that popped out by the color of her hair. Her body was her greatest asset, however, and she and her slavemaster both knew it. If he looked at her in the right lighting and angle, Solas could see the shape of her comely breasts through the sheerness of her dress. _Too obvious._

There was a certain appeal in tasting the forbidden fruit, in taking from the property of others, in the risk of invoking the wrath of a rival. But at the end of the day the fruit was sour as it did not want to be tasted, the property would return as it was afraid of its owner, and the risk of wrath was null once he announced his godhood as Fen’Hellan. So Solas ignored her as she showered him in silent attention, focusing instead on searching for the one who drew him to this dreary event.

Across the room he spotted Ghilan’nain, whisking away abandoned plates and bowls, still full with discarded food. Her white hair shone platinum with the sunlight, her tan skin accented by the plain cream dress sashed at her waist. Solas walked up to stand behind her, and when she turned Ghilan’nain was startled by his sudden appearance, jerking a hand up to her mouth to suppress a gasp, forgetting the dishes she was about to return to the kitchens. Her eyes widened as Solas catched the porcelain platters with lightning reflexes, though with an audible clang. The loud sound turned all surrounding heads to them. He grinned, unfazed by all the tension although Ghilan’nain and his slave companion stood still and shocked until the white-haired woman took the plates from his hands and bowed to take her leave. He stopped her then, and signaled the two women to switch places. The redhead looked stunned, but did not protest as she relieved Ghilan’nain of her dishes and sped away.

Solas took his new companion by the crook of her elbow out to the balcony and lead her to a secluded corner.

“I’m glad to see you follow orders.”

She gasped at his indiscretion, whispering lowly, “We’re not allowed to speak, I can get flogged if caught, and you…”

“Then it is a good thing I cast a barrier. Take me to the casket.”

Ghilan’nain shook her head. “Hanowen.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “What did I say the other day?”

“I was safe as long as I followed your plan.”

Solas raised an eyebrow as he nodded towards the balcony. She sighed and turned to lead him to the terrace up the stairs.

It was as beautiful open space, with twining glittering spires that reached the sky in each corner, decorated with flowerbeds and trimmed bushes. The white and green banners flew with the blowing wind, as well as the brown heraldry of the Huntress.

Lathadahl’s body was exposed in the very center of the upper terrace. Or would’ve been exposed if Ghilan’nain hadn’t made such a mess of it. As it lay now, her remains were enclosed in a sealed granite coffin, covered in strange white flowers with a blood red center, taken directly from the freshly landscaped gardens. It was unusual for a young noblewoman to be hidden this way, but it only added to the mystery of the “hunting accident” that caused her death and attracted even remote rival families to her funeral.

It was easy to spot princess Hanowen among the crowd. She shone, bright and beautiful, her golden hair braided with small flowers, and her pearly chiffon dress swaying with the wind. Her entire being was a beacon, easily mistaken for an angel if not for her rotten interior. When she spotted Solas with Ghilan’nain, her calm and pleasant face contorted in a glower; anger, fear and confusion ruining her composure. It was delightful to see her this way. He had promised the princess he would handle the situation, though how he had not say, and she kept her word that she would remain silent if Ghilan’nain was dealt with in a satisfactory way. But now he was mingling with the slave that had killed her sister, and for her to talk during the memorial service would leave hers and the king’s reputation in tatters. Solas could feel her seething inside. He grinned, though Ghilan’nain just stood in horror.

Ghilan’nain lead him to the king and father of the deceased as it was custom. He stood near the coffin, accepting the gifts the guests brought him. He was clad in his ceremonial robes, adorned with gold and silver from head to toe. Solas presented his gift, an idol made of pure lyrium that sang whenever its owner crossed to the Beyond in dreams. The king accepted the gift with a nod, pleased, and extended his arm for Solas to kiss his emerald ring. He took the king’s hand and leaned to lightly touch his lips on the green gem.

Once all formalities were finished, he was free to roam around and observe. He ordered Ghilan’nain to fetch him some food as he appraised the predicament he’d tangled himself in. Hanowen’s threat to Ghilan’nain had to be neutralized before proceeding with the bigger plan, and the king had to agree to relinquish his slave to him. Solas watched carefully the people gathered around him. A piece was missing to the board.

Ghilan’nain returned with a platter of appetizers. Solas took a fluffy sweet cake, iced with sugary blue cream. It tasted deliciously decadent in his mouth. Through the corner of his eye, a group of nobles arrived at the terrace, bringing offerings to the king. The crest embroidered in their cloaks indicated that not only were they nobility, but they were an extended branch of the royal family of Haminan’s queen, a rival kingdom of Aurillen’s in Andruil’s favor. In their retinue was a handsome young man, most likely born before any of their strife. As Aurillen accepted their gifts and requests, he kept nervously glancing towards Andruil’s brown banners.

Solas nodded in their direction to Ghilan’nain. She raised a questioning eyebrow. His lips turned into a wolfish smile when the lad stared longingly at the shining princess leaning against the white balustrade. Solas pulled his silver-haired companion closer to him.

“See that noble over there?” She nodded. “Make sure he has this with him,” he said, handing her a small gem of lyrium, similar to the one he gave the king.

“Why?”

“Just do as I say, and everything will become clear.”

Ghilan’nain nodded, leaving the appetizers on a small end-table next to Solas. She glided through the gathering, nondescript, until she reached her mark. She bowed to the young noble, extending her hands, placing her right palm facing upward over her left, which faced down — an offering of thanks from the family — and giving him the gem. He accepted, as expected.

Solas plopped another cake into his mouth, satisfied. Tonight, the boy would dream of nothing but the beautiful girl across the terrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fun, inventing ancient elvhen customs is fun!


	6. Keep Your Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** blood.
> 
> So I made a tumblr for artworks and other shenanigans you can follow [here](http://tsyele.tumblr.com).
> 
> Also, drew Ghilan'nain as I imagine her in this fic, link [here](http://tsyele.tumblr.com/post/115331740841/the-serpent-ghilannain-for-my-fic-rise-of-a).

Immortality is a funny thing, in which time passes both too fast and too slowly. Ghilan’nain watched the sun rise and set nine times since the death of Lathadahl, dreading the inevitable end to the extension of her life. Ten days was not enough when she was supposed to live an eternity, but ten days was too much to bear the agony of the fear clutching at her chest.

Solas had given her his word that she would live, and until now he seemed to be keeping the promise, somehow convincing Hanowen to stay quiet in regards to the slave’s involvement in the princess’ sister’s death. However, as the week went on, it only seemed that this benevolent noble was toying with her in a way she simply didn’t understand. He’d told the guards that had come to find Lathadahl’s dead body she’d been attacked by an animal and that Ghilan’nain had tried to save her to no avail. He was the one who informed her master of his daughter’s death as the household fell into silent mourning. He then saved her from the lowly servant work and abuses by the slavemaster by requesting her to be his companion during the memorial. During the celebration, he had her run errands, sneak strange artifacts to other nobles, observe their silent interactions with each other and the servants, and report to him. Solas assured her that everything would become clear, yet everything continued obscured like the forest during dusk, when the fog rose and darkness fell. Ghilan’nain didn’t feel her safety any more assured than when she realized the murder she’d committed, and still he never once touched her as would be expected from a noble with a debt to collect. She stood on a limbo of a promise neither broken nor fulfilled, and it utterly confounded her.

Still, she did as Solas bade her.

It was not easy to understand all his instructions in silent communication — though he didn’t seem to care about convention, Ghilan’nain couldn’t dare to be so insolent, especially after what she’d done. What she did understand was that she, with her green lines crossing the skin of her face, could play behind the scenes whatever game Solas was conducting. In a palace and in the gilded streets of Elvhenan's grand cities, a slave is anonymous and forgotten. Even Hanowen only noticed her when she passed through too closely to the woman or stood with her benefactor. But Ghilan’nain could see that the princess was not pleased with Solas, casting him an icy stare that might as well been a spell, and that once the obligatory mourning period ended, Hanowen wouldn’t keep her mouth shut any longer. The fear of her knowledge loomed over the slave’s head, like a dark heavy cloud that followed her, threatening to spill at any moment. As long as the remaining princess lived, Ghilan’nain could feel a blade pressed on her skin, ready for the moment it could slit her neck.

During the day, she could barely function if not for the orders Solas had for her, and at night her sleep was flighty, restless or inexistent. The fear kept her awake and aware of the passing time as she never been before, stretching and contracting the hours until the end.

And today was the end.

The first light of day creeped from behind the horizon, tinting the sky in shades of blue. It was still early, but Ghilan’nain couldn’t stand lying still with her eyes wide open as she’d done for the entire night. She rose from her bed to put on her ceremonial frock, silently navigating the room full of slaves. She walked quietly through the corridors, head bowed, rolling her bare feet through their outer edge, heel to toes. It was a trained gait, perfected to draw no attention. When Ghilan’nain reached Solas’s room, she stood by the door, waiting. She leaned her ear onto a slit, only to hear silence. It was her hope that he might’ve been awake, too, that he’d call her in for… anything, really; instead of the torture that was watching the sun rise on the window at the end of the guest hall corridor, centimeter by centimeter, signaling the seconds that ticked by.

The sun had left the cover of the mountains and several slaves have already come to wait on their assigned nobles outside their rooms when Ghilan’nain heard the small ding of a bell coming from Solas’s own.

Sliding a stray strand of her white hair behind her ear, she entered his room and bowed to him as per custom. As Ghilan’nain passed through the archway to the bathing chamber to prepare him his morning bath she paused. Every single morning she came to his room, Solas would speak to her and tried to have her speak back, but she’d never answer, afraid that the walls might hear her. Today, when she most needed some kind of reassurance, he was silent.

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

He raised his brow, and chuckled. Solas was still in his bed, reaching for a silken robe to throw over his bare shoulders. Ghilan’nain should’ve expected he would toy with her this way. Facing away from him, she took a deep breath to steel herself, and stepped inside the chamber. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted some movement, and instinctively snapped her head towards it, only to meet a mirror. Ghilan’nain looked at herself, staring at hollow eyes accented by the dark circles underneath them, her tan skin bereft of its usual glow, replaced by a pallor, ugly and alien. She was unacceptable. The lines of blessed and magnificent Andruil written on her face in Aurillen’s green made her whole being unacceptable, from her magic to her appearance, from her idleness to her passions. She’d seen those who could accept and fit in the role, who’d found contentment in their life, but she did not — and could not — for Ghilan’nain had always felt she was never born to or had the disposition to be a slave.

She drew a bath, flickering the heating rune back to life, and adding the scented oils and rejuvenation draughts. Not quite caring anymore, she splashed the water across her face, the fresh feeling spreading through her skin, calming her down and reinvigorating her. This was how the nobles felt all the time.

Solas entered the bathing chamber, now with the cream silk robe draping from his shoulders. Ghilan’nain bowed to him, catching a glimpse of his exposed belly, his skin smooth and taut. She left the room, and waited for him to finish his bath.

The rest of the morning went as same as the days before. Ghilan’nain lead him to the Crystal Hall where breakfast was served, she accompanied him in his surveys of the palace and its guests, and tended to him as expected from a slave. What differed was that he no longer spoke to her, he just smirked.

For Ghilan’nain there was no other logical conclusion. Solas had lied.

If she did not want to die then she had to come up with a plan. It was late, too close to the deadline — _Deadline,_ she laughed to herself — than a wise man would recommend to start planning, but Solas had stayed her hand for days and now he forced it.

Ghilan’nain smiled back to him, as if everything were alright. She disobeyed a king and two princesses before, and in face of imminent death she was not above of disobeying a noble again.

After lunch came the procession, where Lathadahl’s body was transported by slaves through the long stretch to her tomb. The walk was made in silence, save for the forced wailing of her handmaidens who trailed behind her casket. A priest of Falon’Din, requested all the way from the other side of Elvhenan, placed a glyph on the dead princess’ coffin. Once the ritual was done, his assistants slit the throats of Lathadahl’s handmaidens, their dripping blood evaporating in a spell, energizing the enchantment that flashed red three times and stopped, but the air still thrummed with its magic. The stone casket was placed carefully inside the tomb, and the servants’ bodies arranged on the corners of the small mausoleum, facing their mistress here and in the Beyond. The priest then closed the entrance, sealing it with another glyph to keep intruders away.

The funeral was complete. All that was left was the parting feast, and then, when morning came, the mourning and the silence would no longer be enforced. If Ghilan’nain wanted to escape Lathadahl’s and her handmaidens’ fate, she had to act before first light.

Dinner went as expected. Now that the dead had left the premises, wine and other brews could be served, and most of the nobles began slipping in their composure. Tonight would be the night that King Aurillen would expect for some of his guests to forget the solemnity of the event that brought them here. Solas sipped the white wine she had brought him, but was more interested in observing than drinking. His eyes were fixed on a young and awkward man, fidgeting nervously in place. He was the nobleman Ghilan’nain had given Solas’s gem in the first day.

Casually, her benefactor cast his magic around the two of them that muffled all sound, and leaned slightly to her.

“Make sure there’s always a full glass on his table.” And just like that the spell ruptured and the clinking of dishes and chewing noises rang on her ears again.

The slave did as he had asked, not wanting to seem like anything was out of the ordinary. Everytime the young noble finished his drink, Ghilan’nain slinked behind to replace his empty tall crystal glass with a new full one, all the while eyeing the woman who held between her fingers Ghilan’nain’s life and death.

When the night could stretch no longer, the nobles retreated to their rooms for the last time. She accompanied Solas and prepared his bed for his sleep, lit the candles and incense, and filled his water pitcher. He bid her farewell, as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t break his word. She bowed to him one more time, for what she wished was the last.

Ghilan’nain returned to the servant wing quarters, to the room she shared with eleven other slave girls, put on her nightgown, and made a show of sleeping for it was the last thing she could do. She lay on her bed in the darkness, and waited an hour or so — she could never tell the time at night — until she was sure most of the palace was asleep.

She slipped out of the room, silent as a feather, making her way to the royal wing in the cover of the shadows. She knew the paths there from when Ghilan’nain was just a child, accompanying her father as he tended to the master. As she neared the royal family’s private chambers, she took a short sword from a decorative suit of armor, one of many that stood guard across the halls. The blade was dull, but it was still pointy. It would have to do.

Ghilan’nain reached the doors that lead to the rooms. There were no guards stationed there. In fact, she had seen no guards patrolling the hallways either. Had she come during their change of shift? If so, then Andruil’s luck was on her side.

She slid inside the corridor, walking silently, heel to toes, heel to toes, and reached the entrance to Hanowen’s room. Ghilan’nain gripped her sword tight, and made to turn the knob on the door. Her hand hovered, tentatively. _This is a bad idea._ Her nose sucked the air in a deep breath, lungs exhaling slowly. _There is no other idea._ She frowned, determined. Her fingers started to bend over the knob when a creak coming from the end of the corridor startled her. She wasn’t alone.

Panic settled like drowning in cold water, and all Ghilan’nain could do was hide in an alcove behind a suit of armor. She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t do this. Mythal had sent her a sign, and now all her resolve was gone.

A silhouette passed in front of her and Ghilan’nain shook uncontrollably, the grip on the sword faltering, slipping from the sweat forming on her hands. It fell and clanged loudly, and she gasped. Against all reason she made to pick it up again, when she suddenly felt an arm holding her back and a hand slipping over her mouth.

“My barrier can only stifle sound, not stupidity,” the familiar voice whispered in her ear, warming the air as he spoke, “You should really learn to trust me, Ghilan’nain.”

Solas turned her around, keeping his hand over her mouth, and she could make out his features barely with the moonlight. His spell faded, and they both stood still. If it weren’t for the palm covering her mouth and nose, the sound of her hyperventilated breathing would reverberate across the halls.

A woman’s shriek, coming just from the room beside, cut through the air. Then, footsteps echoed all around when a contingent of guards poured through the entrance to the corridor.

 _“What have I done? What have I done?”_ Came a man’s voice, muffled.

“Just as he warned,” King Aurillen spoke, “Seize him!”

All lights came to life and Ghilan’nain saw him, the young nobleman from the dinner, from the gem, being carried away by armed guards.

“You?” She whispered to Solas, and he just nodded and smiled.

Solas then released her and stepped out of their hiding place, and entered the princess’ room.

The king sighed heavily. “My daughter… You better keep your word.”

“Of course,” said Solas, “And I have right here what I promised. Ghilan’nain, come,” he called.

Ghilan’nain walked slowly, confused and afraid. When she crossed the threshold she could see Hanowen dead, a beautifully decorated dagger sticking out of her chest, and the sheets stained red in blood.

“She will be the one who will restore your kingdom to glory,” Solas continued.

“The slave? I remember her. I ordered her to do exactly that the last time and she failed!”

“If I might say so, I believe I know how to better gain Andruil’s favor than you. You said you would give me everything I required. Well, I require her. Relinquish your control of her. She will still belong to you, but she will serve me.”

“I don’t really have a choice now, do I, Fen’Hellan?” Ghilan’nain knew the name. King Aurillen turned to her, anger lowering his voice almost to a whisper. “I sacrificed my remaining daughter for you. You better pray you succeed, unlike last time, or I swear not even Mythal can protect you from me.”

She gulped and nodded in assent, but the fear no longer took over her.

Fen’Hellan. The Noble Wolf. The one who ascended to godhood. Ghilan’nain could barely breathe. All this time, the god of cunning had been guiding her! And then she remembered, in the lips of the servants and the common populace, the Wolf had changed his name. Fen’Haril. The Rebel Wolf. The one who freed the slaves.

Andruil’s luck was with Ghilan’nain indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way Solas plays his games, I, like Ghilan'nain, would also get tired of his shit and take matters into my own hands.
> 
> But at least this plan of his worked, right? RIGHT?


	7. Time and Resources

Solas slipped silently into his chair, feigning obliviousness to the piercing gaze of Elgar’nan, the concerned look on Mythal’s face, and all the eyes that had followed him since he entered the council chamber. Usually, he found it funny to annoy the rest of the Pantheon with his tardiness, and he made it obvious it was intentional. This time, though, it was not.

The events of the past week occupied his mind, his success turning the gears of his head, imagining how to proceed to the next part of his plan. By herself, Ghilan’nain didn’t have the power to impress Andruil or the other gods, and Solas wasn’t too well versed in creating new beings that he could help her right away. This, by itself, posed a conundrum, not to mention all the other particulars in need of a bit of fine tuning. His talks with Wisdom had opened up new avenues of procedure, only to raise more problems. He’d spent so much time discussing his plans with the spirit he forgot the meeting of the Pantheon concerning the expansion of Elvhenan that was taking place.

He didn’t mean to arrive late. In fact, Solas was very much interested in presenting his own ideas this time, knowing full well that anything to do with the expansion of the Empire meant Sylaise pushing for the construction of yet another grand city, which in turn meant overexerting yet more workers and slaves, which in turn meant asserting yet again the absolute _need_ for such slaves. The Lady of the Hearth was adept in having her way, with the agreement she’d struck with June centuries back — in which they would always vote aye on each others projects — Falon’Din would bid against her for the right of having the city dedicated to him, but the vote would swing in favor nevertheless, Dirthamen would agree with Falon’Din almost immediately, and Elgar’nan and Mythal were always uncertain. The most likely opposition Sylaise might face was Andruil, simply for the sheer pleasure of ruining her sister’s plans, but in these kinds of matters the Huntress usually did not care. If Solas had made the meeting on time, there was a possibility that the Hearthkeeper’s motion would be met with a deadlock, though with his late arrival, he feared he did not endear himself to any who might have supported him. He cursed to himself.

Sure enough, the darling of the Pantheon raised her brow at him, slightly vexed by the interruption.

Sylaise cleared her throat. “As I was saying, with the numbers of my followers growing steadily, I think it is time to grace our beautiful empire with the grandest, most magnificent cultural center it deserves. A place of brilliance and magic, where beauty and art meet. A beacon of glory to guide and shine its light upon the People. The beating heart of Elvhenan.”

 _“Your_ followers? What about mine? I have amassed quite a following these past years. Surely as many as you have in the moment, dear sister. If anyone deserves an new kingdom to rule over, it is me,” Falon’Din said.

“As highly as we all regard your importance, Falon’Din, Elvhenan is in dire need of some rejuvenation and entertainment, not the dourness you so like to bring forth.”

“My ‘dourness’ is what keeps our empire prosperous and born anew with newfound wisdom.”

“My knowledge is what keeps our empire alive and healthy, not your rituals.”

“I swear to you, Sylaise, one day your kingdoms will lie in ruins once everyone realizes how useless and pretentious you really are, and that’ll be the day I’ll see that smug smile wiped off your face.”

“Wha—? How dare you—”

“Enough!” Elgar’nan intervened, rising in a jolt from his throne. Mythal placed a hand reassuringly on his shoulder, gently urging him to sit back down. Andruil snapped to attention where before she just rolled her eyes at both gods’ argument, June continued his silent observation, while Dirthamen tried his best not to appear affected. Elgar’nan’s irritation over the two of his children gave Solas some hope that perhaps he could be swayed against the Hearthkeeper’s project.

“Perhaps it would be best for this new city to be a neutral space, as this temple in which we stand, reaching out for all equally. That sounds more like a beating heart. Don’t you think, my dear?”

“No! I mean, All-Mother, surely there must be a ruler, no?” Sylaise said, a bit rattled.

“And who’s that ruler going to be, hmm? You?”

“Certainly not you, Andruil. The capital of Empire should not be lead by a bunch of savages that kill each other’s families off.”

The Huntress huffed, offended. Gossip traveled fast in Elvhenan. Sylaise was normally of a more diplomatic sort, but the tension growing among the People — Solas’s doing — and the in this very council was apparently making her distressed and edgy, something Falon’Din was also exhibiting. Today was not her day, and for that he was thankful, because no matter how low Andruil held him in regard, her sister’s sudden jab would place her lower. Solas decided now was time to chime in.

“We have no need for a new city. In fact, we have so many it’s becoming difficult to navigate between them all. Would it not make more sense for our nation’s current state, if we had a new _eluvian_ network built instead?”

Sylaise raised a brow, displeased by the new proposal. “An _eluvian_ network? Of course, not! Surely you must all see my need for a new capital?”

“Must we? There are cities — right this very moment — in Elvhenan that have plenty of space. There’s no need to waste time and resources to build a new one.”

“You mean _your_ cities that your nobles abandoned along with you? There’s no way I’m sending followers off to your kingdoms.”

“Why do we even have need for these kingdoms? These divisions? Do we not all want what’s best for Elvhenan? Why do we continue to promote the separation of—”

“Fen’Hellan,” Mythal interrupted.

“What?” Solas said, slightly more bitterly than he intended. He knew already what Mythal would say. He had almost tipped his hand.

“That is a discussion for another time.”

Suddenly, breaking his silence, Dirthamen said, “I agree with the Wolf.” Falon’Din turned his head to him, a bit taken aback, as did Solas. It was rare for him to speak when things did not concern him, and especially more when his opinions misaligned with his brother’s. “I also agree with you, All-Mother. If we had another _eluvian_ nexus, information would travel more quickly. We shape the city in the Beyond, make it stand in its own realm, and link it to all others.”

So Dirthamen had an interest in this after all. He was a smart — and relatively reasonable — man, if a bit clingy when it came to Falon’Din. Solas had befriended him through a trusted advisor of the god a few ages ago, and found that he and Dirthamen shared, beyond the obvious love for knowledge, the love to putting it to use. Over the years he coaxed the Keeper of Secrets to leave the shadow of his brother, and ease the conditions imposed on his followers. Ever since, his kingdoms flourished with knowledge and wisdom.

A center for all communication would be of benefit to Dirthamen as well as Solas, but the metropolitan aspect did not appeal to Solas at all.

“I think that is the best idea I’ve heard so far.”

“I agree, Mythal,” Elgar’nan said, rising from his chair. “A new capital for Elvhenan, connected to all in the Pantheon and our lands. A meeting place for all culture and knowledge, and to rally our forces against the Shrouded Ones.” And to that, both the Hearthkeeper and the Huntress perked up.

“What shall we name it?” June asked.

“Arlathan.” Sylaise offered. _Arlathan, Meeting Place. Very original._

“All in favor of Arlathan?”

The ayes resonated in the chamber, coming from all except Falon’Din, who was still bitter over Dirthamen’s defiance, and Solas, who wasn’t completely thrilled on a such a big project that would definitely require slave work. The council continued for a little longer, discussing the specifics of who would oversee the construction, who would design the city, and all other sorts of logistics Solas wasn’t too keen on knowing the exact details, lest he lose his temper again. Though one thing did catch his attention. He had been tasked to help create the pocket in time and space from the Beyond, along with Dirthamen, Falon’Din and Mythal, using the amplifier orbs that June had crafted them.

The orbs were curious and innovative things, completely restricted to all but the members of the Pantheon, and one of the most important sources of their divine power. In them could be stored part of their magic, sealed away so the artifact was required to use it, or simply augmented by the continuous use of mana in its vicinity. June had perfected the craft of these orbs, and he and his followers used many different ones for a variety of reasons, but magic amplification was his greatest achievement. And it was the way Solas would help Ghilan’nain.

When they dismissed, he went after the Craftsman, trying to catch him before he returned to his underground temple, which Solas wasn’t too fond of. They walked, side by side, through the corridor that led to June’s _eluvian_.

“I have a favor to ask of you, June.”

“What is it?” He wasn’t the most talkative of his brethren, but he was a genius and a savant, if a bit too reliant on his slaves.

“I need another orb. For the new project.”

“Isn’t the one you already have enough?”

“I’m afraid not. Too familiar with a certain kind of magic. Not the one I need.”

“I already made you those lyrium beacons for you to find dreamers just last year.”

“It is not the same thing.” They stopped. “I need to augment magic.”

June sighed, pondering. He was not one to deny help to the other gods, but he was not above to use the threat of it for some negotiation. “All right. I’ll have it ready within the next year. Though I might have to ask you something in return.”

A nervous chuckle came out of Solas’s mouth. “I was thinking of having it sooner.”

“Do you know how many things all of you ask me to do? Between you and Andruil, I already have requests to fill an entire decade.”

“Please,” he said, giving the Master of Crafts his most charming smile.

“Fine,” the god relented, “I’ll gather my slaves and we’ll have it ready by the end of the year.”

Solas nodded his goodbye, somewhat pleased. It was a bit hypocritical that the object that would lead to the end of slavery was made through slave labor, but it had to do. One had to do all he could to achieve his goals, even if a few had to be sacrificed for the sake of the many.

His plan was now in motion. All that was left was for Ghilan’nain to do her part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Dialogue.
> 
> Yep. I said it. Arlathan is like the Crossroads.


	8. A Nudge and a Shove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for skipping last week, writer's blocks are awful, and this was a hard chapter to get into, but once in, I couldn't get out.
> 
> I hope this compensate's for last week's lack of update. Enjoy!

King Aurillen had given them permission to do their experiments on his lands.

Solas and Ghilan’nain kept themselves away from any major settlements or temples, trying to keep their practice hidden until he was sure that her magic could create something worthy to be seen. Though his now protegé could manipulate nature in a way he’d never seen before, Ghilan’nain’s ability was far from what he thought it was. The flora she could urge to grow and bloom and slither its tendrils across dirt and bark. The fauna she could manipulate to grow new limbs, twist and turn until flesh and bone could no longer give in the change. And though it was impressive for one so young and enslaved as she was, none of her creations had been truly hers in a sense, and couldn’t stand through time on their own.

He quickly discovered that creating life was not as straightforward as he thought. Without a real base to work with, Ghilan’nain could not even create the simplest of creatures. There could be no life without blood.

For him, that posed a problem. Solas knew the theory behind the magic that manipulated blood, but he never put it to practice. He was a master at working with the magic from the Beyond, where all came to existence by the will of mind rather than matter. There, he could shape his surroundings as he pleased. There, he could change to the Wolf without as much as a sweat, and never did he ever felt nauseated afterwards like in the waking world. There was where he liked to be. Like Solas, the majority of mages drew their powers from the Beyond, bringing it to shape itself in its ethereal form and energy in the material world, but there were some who could manipulate matter like none other, such as June, and to a lesser extent, Ghilan’nain herself, and in the waking world they were anchored. There were also spirits who could do so — in fact it was the spirits who first learned and taught how to manipulate blood much like the living manipulated lyrium — and most did so in an attempt to become thoroughly grounded in the material. The Shrouded Ones were some of such spirits.

After a month with no success, Solas considered introducing Ghilan’nain to them, in the hopes that they would share with her their knowledge of blood magic, as there was no one better qualified than they, but only very few knew where they dwelled and Solas had promised to keep it a secret, lest Elgar’nan and Andruil caught wind of it and resumed their bloody campaign against them. Even though his hope for her was great, Ghilan’nain was still an unknown — and not afraid of going against his word, too.

If left to grow into its own, she was expected to master her magic in few centuries or more, if giving shape to life was even something that could be mastered. The orb he commissioned from June would certainly help, but only if she could do it on her own.

But even though he fancied himself a patient man — as immortality was sure to make any man patient — as time went by, Solas became increasingly worried. The events he set in motion when he freed his slaves from his nobles had not gone unnoticed but either class in all of Elvhenan, and no one could predict when the tension rising across the empire would reach its breaking. Whether it was the very next day or thousands of years from now, Fen’Haril preferred to be prepared sooner rather than later.

He knew what Wisdom would say: that reaching out in search of knowledge was the right path to take, but the spirit had a hard time in predicting the workings and intricacies of the living mind beyond the love of knowledge and how to use it. Solas reckoned that someone with a larger understanding of mortal passions and a mind for unpredictability would be of more benefit to him. Besides, it had been a long time since he updated Mythal on their plan.

Solas called that day a break on their efforts, and let Ghilan’nain rest. He went to the All-Mother with the perfect excuse of discussing the building of Arlathan, meeting with her in her southern temple.

Hers was a significant larger complex than his, surrounded by a immense jungle carefully tamed and shaped by her servants. Despite being so far south, the temple grounds retained a climate of its own by drawing energy from the Beyond which enveloped the surroundings in its warm magic.

As he walked across a bridge, hearing the harmonic rhythm of flowing water, he had that unmistakable feeling of being watched, goosebumps forming all over his body as the tingling on the base of his head shivered down his spine. He knew Mythal’s sentinels were there to ensure her safety, for being the All-Mother did not mean she was loved by all, nevertheless, Solas was loath of having his privacy invaded.

The rest of the walk was made in a quick pace and alert mood.

Solas came into the temple through a different entrance, eschewing completely the supplicants’ path to arrive directly at the living quarters. A servant, marked with the green branches of the Mother on her forehead and cheeks, greeted him with a bow, and ushered him inside. She tread ahead of him, clattering her staff on the floor whenever she approach a door, and opening secret passageways that turned the building into a maze. Although he was quite familiar with the carefully laid mosaics, Solas enjoyed to observe them during each visit. Their gold and emerald splendor reflected the dance of the torch flames on each wall and floor, lighting the halls in warm orange hue. He remembered the time when his Wolf form earned its place among the other gods, effectively considering him her family. The servant’s voice cracked, attempting to tell him in a most contained manner to hurry along and not linger. Solas chuckled to himself, and was thankful for the woman that he did not have the mood of the likes of Andruil or Falon’Din.

They reached a parlor, and there Mythal awaited him, absently drinking from a cup while her most loyal sentinel shadowed her at her side. She was dressed in a flowing purple satin gown, parted in two places to reveal her wrapped and armored legs. Her dark hair was combed back, held together in braids and brightly colored rope, and a platinum diadem sat atop her head. The servant bowed to her, and arranged a seat across the All-Mother for Solas. As he sat, the marked woman bowed again and left.

“What is it with immortal men that makes them think they can take an eternity to meet their appointments?” Mythal quirked a brow, as she slurped the liquid into her mouth. The casual display offset her usual calm and composed attitude in court, and the regal demeanor she adopted. But he knew that, like most, she had one face for some, and another for a select few.

He laughed, as he usually did with her quips. “I’m sorry, my friend.” He smiled apologetically.

Mythal turned to the hooded sentinel, placing a hand reassuringly on his forearm, “Leave us, Shivan. I am in no danger here.”

“As you wish,” he said almost in a whisper, nodding his head. He held Solas’s gaze for a second before departing, to which the youngest god scoffed aside as excessive zealotry.

Once Shivan left, she turned to face him with an amused smile.

“I see you’ve been busy, Noble — no, _Rebel_ — Wolf. Freeing your slaves, disbanding your nobles, and now… pitting royal families against one another.” She slurped again before replacing the cup on its saucer. “My, my, if you didn’t ask for a new nexus to keep our eluvians in order, one would think you were trying to sow chaos.”

“My friend, if you really knew me, you would know that I don’t cause chaos for chaos’ sake.”

“And that is what intrigues me! I have yet to see any difference on my daughter. So tell me, Rebel Wolf, what is it that you’re doing?”

“I am still working on it. Albeit with a different approach.”

She laughed, slapping her hand against her thigh, “Finally figured out my girl isn’t really that interested in the likes of you?”

“How do you know?” Solas had thought that Andruil had kept their relationship secret from the pantheon.

“A mother knows these things.”

“I— uh…” He stuttered until he realized what Mythal had said and how it confirmed his suspicions, and smiled, joining in the jest, “It took me some time to figure it out,” he paused, “You know my pride.”

“Ha!” She cackled, “Don’t tell me you came all the way down here to tell me your ego got hurt.”

Solas pondered how to approach the subject of Ghilan’nain. Her involvement in their plan, and the exact details of what he was brewing, were things he had _not_ discussed with Mythal. In fact, this was the first private meeting they had in about three centuries. In the time in between, there was just a sort of understanding of what was happening between the two of them.

“I found someone.”

“Oh, so soon already? She may have never really liked you, but this is my daughter we’re talking about.”

Solas chuckled, “It’s not like that. She’s a slave.”

“That hasn’t stopped men before.”

“It has always for me.”

“For egotistical reasons.”

“What—? What does it matter the reasons as long as I didn’t do something I regret?”

Mythal sighed. “My dear, there’s no need to be so defensive with me. You know the reasons _why_ we do what we’re doing are as important as _what_ we do in the end.”

“You are right,” he said, facing away from her, “I’m sorry.” Solas knew that his ego and belief in his superiority had prevented him from doing things in the past that he would regret now. It kept him in a strange limbo of pride, for he was proud he had not done anything that compromised his current beliefs, but was ashamed of the sole reason not to do so. After all, he always advised his own supplicants that good intentions outweighed regrettable actions.

The All-Mother placed her hand on his and squeezed his fingers reassuringly. Solas looked up at her. She smiled sadly at him, then released his hand and returned to her features their usual amused look.

“You were telling me of this slave girl.”

“Ah, yes. Her name is Ghilan’nain,” he said, and Mythal hummed, pensively. “I found her, shaping the body of animals, shifting her own form.”

Mythal shifted in her own seat, sitting upright then placing her elbow on the endtable and propping her head on her arm, keeping her eyes on him with focused attention. “How curious.”

“I thought so, too.”

“And, pray tell me, what is it that you intend to do with her?”

“I… was hoping she could have a seat in the pantheon.”

“Ha! Boy, once was one time too many. You can’t possibly expect Elgar’nan and the others to accept another proposal from me, especially since you both share an agenda. Now, how would that look on me?” She reached for the cup and sipped from it again. “I’m sorry, friend, but right now they do not suspect I offered godhood to you for anything other than you amusing me. There are times to be bold, but also times to be subtle.”

“I know that. That is why it will be Andruil who must grant her apotheosis.”

“And how exactly do you propose that?”

“Ghilan’nain will impress her.”

“So? What seems to be the problem?”

“She needs to learn more powerful blood magic than I anticipated.”

“I recall that you have a set of particular friends that can help you with that far better than I.”

“Do you really think that is wise?”

“No.” And with that Solas scrunched his face just the slightest bit. “But… if we all wait for the wise thing to do to appear before us, nothing would ever be done. We can’t know for sure about everything. There is no such thing as a truly wise decision.”

“That is not very reassuring.”

“My dear, we all take risks, you can’t be cautious all the time. We nudge, but, sometimes, a shove is required,” she paused, _“Rebel_ Wolf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this just came after a writer's and artist's block, so sorry for the delay.
> 
> At first I was afraid to tackle Mythal, but then I got into their dialogue and just decided that Mythal and Solas would spend a lot of time trading quips like my brother and I do, so I hope you enjoyed their back and forth as I did, and the little bit of my philosophizing coming from the mouth of Mythal.
> 
> Also, lots of speculation on the way of how both types of magic work and why the spirits were the firsts to discover blood magic. Make sense?
> 
> I have been loving all comments so far, you guys keep me going, and if you have some food for thought for me, I'd really love to know about it!


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